Esther Nnaemeka
Writing is personal. It only becomes public when the readers understand in depth what the message being passed across entails. That is my ultimate dream as a writer.
Member Since: 1 year ago
I will sit still, for now
#poetry I will sit still, for now The momentum is limping My courage seems to have left town I will chew my lips and let them think they are winning I will sit still still My fingers will itch but I will not move They will wait for a response from the mill Some will press me for it, some will shove I will sit still, and kneel The back of my legs tightly tucked underneath my bottom Blissful images will surface on my mind which I will not peel When it ravages me I know some will treat me like ...
Bloody tongue [Part 1]
#NircleStories Time inhaled and exhaled and let you out in one breath. But that breath was toxic, it was acidic, it was heavy. There were times when I wanted to look at you, when I really wanted to see you, but there was a fog clouding my eyes. It pressed heavily on me and I couldn't get it out. I tried, tried, I honestly did try my best but it was all in vain. I just couldn't see you, I just couldn't hear your name. You had lost your eyes, your ears, your mouth; you had lost yourself. Your s...
A Second Diet
#NircleStories The aim of this is to be smart and not run mad. To discover, know, ascertain, decipher and despite it all, not have a broken mind. That stale air about you that leaves people staring; your actions so distinct and separate that they clearly show your intelligence but also doesn't hide that you are rotting away mentally too. An antithesis of life. The true bane of existing. Read with only a fragment of your attention and a quarter of your thought because I cannot guarantee that wh...
Rinsed out
"Mami, they said you can slow down if you are struggling". She literally trembled when I said those words. My mother was a strong woman. A traditional woman. The kind of woman who would keep her marriage till the end for the sake of her children. The kind that would kill her husband a thousand times in her head and still serve him pounded yam and his favourite soup every night. She knew what it meant to struggle quite well. What she didn't know how to do was slow down. She turned slowly, as thou...
Brown lover
His favorite color was brown. He said it was so because brown reminded him of old wisdom, a sage, a wisdom that could only come with age. It also reminded him of a tangible passing away. A loss that one must feel and hold on to in order to be able to feel at all. Whenever he wrote, he would always write with a brown coloured pen, most times thinking out loud how nice it would be to have brown ink on white paper; a beautiful synergy. Not because the combination was so pleasant to look at, but bec...
